Skipping Stones
by Alexandria-likethecityinEgypt
Summary: Eight year old Dick is having trouble dealing with his grief. Brand new to this parenting business, Bruce must find a way to get his young ward to open up. It shouldn't be so hard except that Bruce has no idea what he is doing. One-Shot. (Don't own these guys - Wish I did.) {The 1st in the Young Dick Grayson series.}


**This is actually the first of a new series I've started called the Young Dick Grayson series. These stories, mostly one-shots but not all, chronicle Dick's early days at the manor through his first several years as Robin (ages 8 to 12). Not all young Robin stories will fit into this series. I number them for you to make it easier to follow (These are listed in order on my profile page for your convenience with new stories being inserted wherever they fit into the series.) I do not write them necessarily in chronological order, however, so numbers will change as new stories are added.**

 **This particular story is placed just a few weeks after Dick comes to live at Wayne Manor. It is Bruce's first, clumsy foray into the challenges of fatherhood.**

 **No Warnings . . . But I give it a K+, just in case a swear word slipped in there somewhere while I wasn't paying attention.**

* * *

"You need to try to get him to open up and talk, Bruce," Leslie told him from across her office desk.

It was Dick's third visit to her office in as many weeks. The first was a general check-up and to treat a sprained wrist, bruised ribs, and a blackened eye he had gotten while in CPS' ' _exceptional_ ' care. The second visit was to begin the various vaccinations that his parents had never been able to afford to give him. This one was to address the boy's continued weight loss due to lack of appetite, a symptom of the child's grief, as was his inability to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time.

"Leslie, what do I know about psychology? I'm no therapist." Bruce complained.

"You knew enough to bring him in," she tapped a pen absently on her blotter. "I was under the assumption that you took psychology in college. Was I wrong?"

"Those were criminal psychology and abnormal psych classes, Leslie. Hardly the same as what you're talking about."

"Nonetheless, Bruce, you've taken that boy into your home and that means you are responsible for his care." She leaned back in her chair, pinning the young man with a glare.

"I've kept him out of the orphanages and, God save us, the detention center. I've promised to give him an education, food, clothing, shelter, and medical care. If you say that care includes a psychologist, then say the word and I'll fly in the best damned psychologist in the nation for him." Bruce told her.

He was serious. Although Bruce's own experiences with psychologists and therapists weren't happy ones, he trusted Leslie's opinion. If she recommended someone, they could at least give it a try. Dick would have the ultimate say in it, however. If the boy didn't want therapy, Bruce wouldn't force it on him. But something needed to be done. Things couldn't continue as they were.

Dick, already smaller and lighter than most of his peers, had been steadily losing weight since the death of his parents six weeks ago. The social worker assigned to him had been too overworked to have noticed until trouble had presented itself. Unfortunately, it had taken three of those weeks for Bruce to arrange the paperwork and get the necessary approval in order to be appointed the boy's guardian, even if only temporarily. Besides addressing the issues of the boy's physical safety, it was hoped that getting Dick out of the system and into a home would stop the downward spiral and the child would start eating and sleeping again.

Today, Leslie's scales told them that Dick had lost another pound and a half, weight he could ill-afford to lose. He was borderline malnourished and it was enough to send his butler into conniptions. Bruce had spent the past three weeks eating more macaroni and cheese and spaghetti than he had in the course of his entire life. Alfred had even resorted, in the last few days, to processed foods, much to poor man's horror and disgust, all in an effort to entice Dick to eat but with no success.

The hotdogs had been an interesting change of pace but the boy had only eaten two small bites before shoving the plate back and quietly asking to be excused from the table. The rest of the package had went immediately into the garbage and left the two men shaking their heads in consternation. They both wanted to do right for the child and were at their wit's end as to how to bring Dick out of his grief and put a stop to this self-imposed deprivation.

"I don't think that is necessary yet," Leslie said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Honestly, if I thought that Dick would open up for a psychologist, I would call one in myself but, even after three visits, I've hardly gotten the boy to speak a total of five words to me."

She was tired. Normally, she slept the sleep of the righteous after a day of providing free healthcare to the underprivileged and homeless of Gotham City. Lately, however, Leslie had been hardpressed to get more than a few short hours before dawn would break . . . all because she couldn't help worrying over this one little boy.

"He's hardly spoken to me either. Have you considered that the boy might be naturally reticent? That maybe this quietness, that you believe is Dick regressing into himself, is simply a part of him?" Bruce knew that he was the same way. His outgoing, playboy image was merely a testament to his acting skills and not a reflection of the true man.

"Have you ever seen him cry," she asked, abruptly.

Bruce hesitated. " . . . No. Not since the night that his parents were killed, at least."

She waved that away. "I meant since then."

"Leslie, I know for a fact that he's cried because the social worker told me that there were complaints from the other boys that he often cried through the night. In fact, his injuries he bore when I first brought him to you apparently stemmed directly from one of those complaints."

"And did the complaints continue after that?" she asked curiously.

"What do you mean? Alfred and I picked him up and brought him home with us shortly after that incident, so I'm not entirely sure," Bruce admitted. "He was only there for another three nights between the fight and his removal from that environment."

"You should find out," Leslie told him as she stood up and walked around the desk, her signal that the meeting was over. "And you should try to get him to talk to you." At Bruce's expression, she clarified. "It can be about anything really. Dick needs to know that he can speak about his parents and cry for them if he needs to."

"You _want_ me to make him _cry_?" Bruce asked, dismayed. He couldn't help feeling a little appalled by the prospect.

"I want you to get him to open up, Bruce. I want him to speak, to cry, to laugh, to scream . . . _something_! Dick needs to do _something_! He isn't thriving and I am becoming seriously worried about him. Bottling up one's emotions is not good for anyone . . . As _you_ well know."

Bruce ignored her little dig and stood up. "I'll speak to Alfred," he promised.

Leslie laid a hand over his arm. "While I am not criticizing Alfred in the least, I would prefer it greatly if the person Dick spoke with was you."

"Leslie . . ." he began.

"Bruce, I've seen the way that boy looks at you," she stressed. "If he were to choose to open up to anyone, I think it would be you." She smiled encouragingly. "He admires you, I think. Certainly he looks up to you."

"Oh now, I think you are just pandering to my ego, Leslie, and you know as well as I do that I don't have one of those." Bruce's lips quirked up on one side.

She laughed. "Oh no, you have an ego alright. In fact, if you'd have brought yours with you today, there wouldn't have been room for all three of us in this office."

Bruce released a rare chuckle.

"Seriously, Bruce," she said to him, sobering. "I'm worried about him. It is like his grief has stopped progressing. It's stalled in a particularly dangerous place. Dick needs to speak with someone. I think that once he begins opening up, he will begin eating again. And you and I both know that Dick _needs_ to eat. He can't afford to lose more weight than he already has." She paused for effect. "After all that he's been through, I would hate to have to hospitalize him."

Bruce winced at the suggestion and then sighed. "Alright. Of course, I'll do whatever I can," he promised.

"That's all anyone can ask," she said, patting his arm encouragingly.

They walked out to the waiting room together where Dick and Alfred were waiting for them. Alfred directed the boy to stand as the two entered. Leslie bade the elder man goodbye and then she squatted down in order to look Dick in the eye.

"Okay, young man," she smiled at him, "the next time you come to visit, I expect to see at least five new pounds on you. Make sure you are eating."

Dick nodded, but continued to stare at his shoes. "Yes, ma'am."

The words were whispered but they were the first words that Dick had managed to speak throughout the entire visit.

* * *

True to his word, Bruce attempted to get in contact with the counselor at the Gotham City Boys' Correctional Facility where Dick had spent several weeks before coming to the manor. It had horrified Bruce that they would place a child so young within its confines but Dick's social worker used the outstanding warrant for Anthony Zucco's arrest to justify it. Bruce had used his own home security as an incentive to pull the boy out of the facility and have Dick placed with him. The chances of someone getting on his property were slim to none, let alone manage it without his or Alfred's knowledge.

It took several tries but eventually he managed to contact the woman. She obviously had better things to do with her time but she had promised to ask around to see if anyone could remember if Richard Grayson had continued to cry at night after the incident that ended with the eight-year-old sporting a sprained wrist, several bruised ribs, and a black eye.

"Master Bruce, there is a Janet Springer on the line for you. She says that she is returning your call."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce told his butler as he picked up the phone.

"Ms. Springer, thank you for calling me back so promptly; I realize that this is the weekend. Have you found out anything about what we previously discussed?" Bruce asked. The woman hadn't had time for pleasantries the last time they had spoken so, he didn't waste time and asked for the information he was seeking right away.

"Apparently, the scuffle had resolved whatever issues the boys had. No more crying was reported after the incident," she told Bruce succinctly.

No questions were asked about why he was looking into the matter, he noted. Ms. Springer evidently had no more time to bother with a child no longer under her immediate supervision.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?"

He could tell by the inflections in her voice that she sincerely hoped this was the end of the matter.

"No, Ms. Springer. You've told me everything I needed to know," Bruce assured her.

"Good. In that case, Mr. Wayne, I will bid you good day."

She hung up before he could tender a polite goodbye. She didn't inquire after Dick's welfare once during either phone call and he felt a pang of sympathy for the boys under her care. He couldn't help but wonder how many of them he would meet one day in his other guise. Too many would be his guess.

Bruce leaned back in his chair and considered what he had learned. He suspected that Leslie had already known the answer when she had suggested he ask after it. He also suspected that there was something significant in it. According to the report, Dick had cried throughout the night for two and a half weeks, until his roommate and another boy whose cell was next to Dick's had taken the matter into their own hands. The two teens had beaten the much younger boy while in the communal bathroom.

No other threats had been reported but, then, Dick had refused to talk about the attack when he had been questioned. In fact, not another word had been spoken by the child until Bruce had shown up three days later to ask him if he would like to go home with him. Dick had stared at the shine of Bruce's shoes and had eventually whispered a polite 'yes sir', although not without a little prodding on Bruce's part.

Leslie had complained how little the child had spoken during his three visits but, the truth was, Dick had spoken not much more than that to either Alfred or Bruce in the intervening weeks. Aware that the boy might still be plagued with nightmares, both men had made it a point to listen at the child's door a few times a night. No sounds were ever heard, leading the men to believe the boy was sleeping soundly but, every morning, Dick would meet them with an exhausted, disheveled appearance.

Bruce had begun peeking in the room at every opportunity, only to find the boy perched on the window seat in his room or curled up in the upholstered chair next to his bed. Each time, Bruce would pick the child up and tuck him back into bed, only to discover him back in the chair or window seat a mere hour later. Only occasionally had Bruce caught Dick dozing but the boy would startle awake almost immediately.

"Your coffee, sir," Alfred announced, bringing the tray to the large mahogany desk that dominated the room. "Bad news?" He asked this, intuitively recognizing the symptoms of a brooding Bruce.

Bruce looked up, nodding as he took the cup of an expensive Brazilian blend. He set it in the middle of his blotter and promptly forgot about it.

"Hm? Thank you, Alfred," he mumbled. "I'm afraid it is much like Leslie suspected. Dick cried every night until the two older boys attacked him, after which the night terrors seemed to stop. Instead of investigating the drastic change in the boy's emotional state, they simply counted themselves lucky to have resolved the issue before another fight erupted."

"Absolutely dreadful place," Alfred remarked, anger seeping through his normal stoic expression. "They had no business placing a child so young, and traumatized on top of it all, into that facility."

"Agreed but at least we got him out of there when we did," Bruce said.

"And Dr. Thompkins's suggestion, sir? What is to become of that?"

Sighing, Bruce ran a tired hand over his face. "One I need to address soon," he admitted.

"As they say, sir, there is no time like the present," Alfred chirped far too enthusiastically.

Bruce glanced at the clock on the mantle, the grandfather clock at the back of his study hadn't kept the correct time in decades. One o'clock in the afternoon . . . They had several hours before dinner. He looked out of the window, noting that the sun was actually shining for once and the day was quite pleasant for this time of year. Gazing out over the lawn and gardens that surrounded the house, Bruce turned the problem over in his mind. He knew next to nothing about dealing with small boys despite having been a small boy once himself. He, apparently, knew even less about dealing with grief because, as Alfred and Leslie were constantly pointing out to him, he had never properly dealt with his own. But Bruce wanted desperately to help Dick. He didn't want this particular small boy to grow up to be like him, unable to enjoy life, obsessed with his dark mission, and incapable of developing close relationships with the people around him.

Oh, he wasn't a total loss, he supposed. He knew that the feelings that he held for Alfred could be described as love, the man had been like a father to him over these many years and Bruce truly liked and respected Leslie Thompkins but the rest of the world . . .? It was a cold, dark place for him. Its people were divided into the innocent and the guilty, and he tended to use them as a means to an end.

Sure, he sympathized with the victims he rescued but he didn't act as a counselor. Bruce helped them by saving them from violence when he could and, if he couldn't prevent that, then he would, at least, ensure that they found justice. Why this one little boy had stayed with him, he didn't know, but Bruce had never been able to scratch the child from his mind.

In the time between the death of Dick's parents at the hands of Anthony Zucco and the day he had brought the boy into his own home, Bruce could barely concentrate on anything else. His mind constantly wandered back to the child repeatedly throughout the day and night. When he closed his eyes, Bruce saw the small boy as he was on that terrible night, huddled on his knees between the bodies of his parents, sawdust sticking to his parents' blood that coated his legs and hands. Dick had wept bitterly, clearly devastated over his loss.

It was during his night work as the Batman that Bruce had discovered that there was a price on the child's head. The boy had seen Anthony Zucco threaten 'Pop' Haley but, more importantly, young Dick Grayson could place Zucco at the scene of the crime on the night of his parents' death. Dick had seen Zucco leaving the backstage area dressed as one of the roustabouts.

It had taken only a few days before Bruce had come to the decision to bring the child into his own home. Batman hadn't been able to save the boy's family but _Bruce_ could save the young couple's son!

When he had begun inquiries into the process of taking a ward, he had been horrified to discover that the boy was tucked up in a detention center for his own ' _protection_ '. Bruce had used his influence to pull every string he could in order to get the child out of the facility as quickly as possible but, bureaucracy being what it was, it had still taken the better part of three weeks to accomplish the task.

 _But it had not been soon enough_ , Bruce thought angrily, remembering the bruises and blackened eye, the swollen wrist the boy had been sporting the day he had arrived to take him..

Taking a breath, he turned from the window and headed for the Dick's room. As Alfred had said, there was no time like the present. Maybe a walk in the fresh air would do them both some good.

As he made his way to the stairs, Bruce remembered taking walks out by the lake with his own father. Those rare moments that his very busy father made for his young son were some of the most treasured memories Bruce had of Thomas Wayne. It was those happy memories that made Bruce's decision for him. Perhaps Dick would find the kind of peace and enjoyment by the lake that Bruce had found so long ago.

* * *

Bruce knocked on the door to the bedroom next to his own.

It had been Alfred's idea to place the child close to him, and Bruce hadn't objected despite the very real possibility that the boy would wake up needy and crying after a nightmare. There had also been a strong likelihood that Dick would attempt to search him out for comfort, but neither possibility had occurred. The boy had remained silently tucked into his room night after night.

"Dick? Mind if I come in?"

Bruce opened the door as he said this, oddly hoping to find the child crying and resolving the situation without any assistance on his part. Dick wasn't immediately located, however. His usual spots by the window or in the chair were vacant. Bruce's eyes roamed the dimly lit room until he discovered the boy dry-eyed and huddled in a corner.

He sighed. Not resolved, then.

Bruce entered and sat down on the foot of the bed near Dick's corner. The boy raised his eyes up to meet Bruce's own. The deep-seated sadness tore at the man's heart. He understood that sadness as perhaps few others ever could, but he was amazed by the boy's fortitude. In the time following Bruce's own parents' murder, he had wept bitterly for months in solitude; his tears drying up only in the presence of others.

"It's a beautiful day," Bruce said, conversationally. "One of those rare moments in Gotham when the sky is clear and the sun is shining."

He leaned over and tugged on the drapes. Sunlight spilled into the room, brightening it and dispelling the gloom. Dick's corner, however, remained in shadow. Bruce frowned as he watched the boy pull his feet closer to his body and away from the stream of light. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and jaw, worriedly.

"Come on, son. It's too fine a day to waste it. Let's you and I go for a walk together," Bruce said with false cheer. "I have something to show you."

Interest rose and then dwindled away in those magnificently expressive, blue eyes. Those eyes weren't dead yet. There was life still to be found in there; Bruce just needed to coax it out.

He bounded to his feet, walked to the closet, and tugged out a red jacket. The weather was mild enough that a heavy coat and gloves wouldn't be necessary until the sun began its descent. They would be back in an hour, he estimated. No need to bundle up; the exercise they would get would be enough to keep them warm.

Dick pulled on the jacket. When he had trouble with the zipper, he just shoved his hands into the pockets. Bruce dropped down on one knee and wrangled the stubborn zipper up. He tapped the boy on the nose when he was finished.

"I need to grab jacket myself," he told him and led the way to his room. "There's a lake on the property. I thought we might take a walk out to it."

As Bruce rummaged through a drawer, he watched the boy out of the corner of his eye. Dick stood on the threshold waiting, but the deadened look had once more fled as his gaze traveled around the room curiously. It would be difficult not to be curious about the man who had searched you out specifically and taken you into his own home.

Locating a jacket much like Dick's own, but with a fleece lining, Bruce quickly donned it and turned the boy around. Dick had to jog to keep up with Bruce's longer strides, he noted, but rather than slowing down for the boy, Bruce snatched him up and swung him around to his back. Dick's arms obediently latched tightly around his neck as his legs wrapped around his guardian's waist.

With Dick secure, Bruce broke into a jog. He caught sight of the boy's face in the large mirror positioned in the foyer as they were coming down the stairs. A grin flickered across the child's face as he bounced comically on Bruce's back.

 _I may be onto something_ , he thought.

"I'm going to swing by the kitchen to let Alfred know where we're going," he told the boy. "If I remember right, there used to be ducks at the lake. I don't know if they're still there, but we should bring them a peace offering for disturbing them, just in case. What do you say we take a bag of breadcrumbs with us?"

He felt Dick's head bob against his shoulder, and took that as a yes. It was a form of communication, but Bruce wanted to go one better. He bounced Dick on his back once.

"What was that," he asked. "I didn't catch that?"

Sure enough . . .

"Yes," Dick said with a soft giggle.

Ah, there it was; sweet music to his ears. Bruce smiled, and looked over his shoulder at the boy. Not so dull anymore, he thought, meeting the sparkling blue eyes.

"Great," Bruce said. "That's great!"

* * *

The two burst through the kitchen door, startling Alfred into dropping the tomato he held. The red fruit rolled off of the cutting board and into the sink.

"Oh, I say," Alfred smiled at the duo. "What goes on here?"

"We are on a mission, Alfred," Bruce announced with great dramatic flair. "We are off to parts unknown on a grand adventure! We need sustenance to tide us over until the dinner hour and a bag of breadcrumbs with which to charm the natives!"

"Ah, you travel abroad to the lake, I take it." Alfred moved to the refrigerator in order to retrieve the ingredients for a substantial snack. He paused at the pantry and then began putting two sandwiches together.

"Ham or turkey," he asked, placing a plate onto the counter.

"Ham," Bruce said at the same time as Dick called out for "Turkey!"

Alfred met his employer's gaze with satisfaction. "The masses have spoken," he said. "Both it is."

Within a few minutes, Alfred was tucking two sandwiches into a small backpack with some sliced carrots and a couple of apples. He added a thermos of steaming hot cocoa, and lastly dropped a large bag of breadcrumbs into the mix. Bruce set Dick onto the counter and Alfred helped the boy to slip on the pack. Once situated, Bruce bent and allowed Dick to climb up on his back again.

"We'll be back by dinner time, Alfred," Bruce called over his shoulder.

"Indeed, sir. I look forward to it," he remarked dryly. "You should head back before the sun begins to set. I'm fairly positive the mild temperatures of the afternoon will plummet after dark."

But the two were already gone. Alfred smiled after them; watching as the master galloped across the lawn in an equine fashion. He didn't know Master Bruce still had it in him to be so playful. This was not the same acting that the younger man displayed for his wealthy peers. If he didn't know better, Alfred would guess that the man was rather enjoying himself in his attempt to charm the young lad out of his grief and self-imposed silence.

* * *

Dick was laughing . . . _Laughing_! Not a giggle as he had earlier, but outright laughter. It was a beautiful sound. As joyful as it was contagious.

Bruce felt his lips curving upward. It felt odd; stretched. Not a smile, then, but a grin. It felt foreign on his face, but not in a bad way. No, more in an interesting way; a pleasant way. He turned toward the woods that surrounded the formal lawns and gardens of the manor.

There it was; the path. It was a bit overgrown, he noted, but not nearly as much as he had expected it to be. It had been years since he had been out here, after all. He wondered if Alfred had the gardener keep it up during the warm months. He trotted over the path; taking care to dodge low-hanging branches and encroaching shrubbery. He felt Dick duck his head to avoid several sharp twigs.

"Not much farther now," he called back over his shoulder.

They broke through the trees and saw the path sloping downward toward a pretty meadow with a large lake glistening in the sunlight at the far end of it. The lake was large enough that one end couldn't be seen as it wrapped around the neighboring hill. It also sported a quaint, little island in the middle of it. There used to be a small boathouse that kept a couple of canoes for visitors to use. Bruce even remembered him and his parents picnicking on the island once so long ago.

Funny, but that memory had slipped his mind until this moment. He hitched the boy higher and turned so that Dick could get an unimpeded view of their destination. It was the least he could do for the gift of that memory. He had so few that every single one was precious to him.

There wasn't enough time to paddle out to the island today, but Bruce resolved to find the time to take the boy out there on the next pleasant weekend they had. He made a note to have Alfred look into the state of the boathouse and the condition of the canoes. He wanted Dick to know that there was still joy to be found in the world around him. Perhaps he himself hadn't managed to find it growing up, but Bruce was determined to help Dick discover it. His boy wouldn't grow up in a grim or lonely place if _he_ had any say in it.

"You want to get down now," he asked. All that open spaced just begged for small child to run across it.

Bruce started to kneel, but Dick let go and slid down to the ground. When he didn't take off, Bruce glanced down at him. Dick looked out longingly, but remained rooted to the spot next to him. The smile and laughter of only minutes before were gone. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy . . .

He held his hand out. After a slight hesitation, Dick took it. Bruce watched in amazement as Dick's hand disappeared into his much larger one with only the tips of his fingers peeking out. He felt a flutter of nervousness that he was suddenly responsible for the happiness and wellbeing of this small person; the worry was there that he might not be up to the task.

"Are you ready" Bruce gave the tiny hand a squeeze. "I believe the natives are restless. There's no telling what sort of temperaments those ducks might have. A little food might go a long way to smoothing out any potentially ruffled feathers they might get when confronted with travelers from abroad."

With a gentle tug, Dick followed his new guardian down the hill. Bruce didn't notice the struggle the small boy had keeping up with his much longer stride until suddenly the boy was running headlong down the embankment toward the water. Bruce charged after him. The ground didn't flatten out until it almost reached the water's edge. November was too cold to take an unexpected plunge, despite the almost balmy weather.

The uneven ground dipped and unexpectedly Dick was airborne. Bruce lunged forward, catching the back of the boy's jeans, and swinging him up and into his arms. Unfortunately, Bruce couldn't stop on a dime. His foot landed in another low spot and they both were suddenly flying. Bruce curled in, tucking himself around the boy protectively, as he twisted his body in order to take the brunt of the fall. He had almost completed a forward flip, but his shoes slid on the damp grass and Bruce landed on his bottom, sliding several more feet to the base of the hill.

The ducks took exception; flying off several feet in all directions, and protesting their intrusion vehemently. A few feathers floated down around them as the man and boy gaped, startled, at each other.

"Are you alright," Bruce gasped; patting the boy down in search of injuries.

To his surprise, however, Dick burst out laughing as he clambered to his feet.

"That was fun," he grinned; and then, almost as if he realized what he had done, he shut his mouth abruptly; biting his lip in his consternation. "I'm sorry," he gasped.

Bruce blinked. "Sorry for what?"

The sadness seeped back into the child's eyes, and it was all Bruce could do not to groan aloud in protest.

He sighed. "It's okay, you know. They won't be angry with you if you smile or laugh."

"But how will they know that I miss them if I am smiling and laughing?"

The question came out so quietly that Bruce almost didn't hear it.

"They'll know," Bruce said softly. It was something that he hadn't understood himself until he had grown up; too late to do anything about it. "They'll know because they miss you, too. But they wouldn't want you to be unhappy, Dick. No parent wants their children to be unhappy. Instead, we honor them by living life with joy and purpose. That is what they would have wished for you had they been able to stay. They would not have stopped wanting that for you just because they had to leave."

The boy stared at him silently for a long moment before turning to look out onto the lake.

Bruce scrubbed his face with his hands. He knew he was the worst person for this job! He should have gone with his first instinct and instructed Alfred to provide an outlet for the boy. What was Leslie thinking asking him to do it? Yes, Bruce understood grief all too well, but he knew next to nothing about healing or nurturing or counseling . . .

He shoved himself to his feet, and dusted off his pants. They were likely ruined. He didn't believe even Alfred could get rid of the grass stains that marked his landing. Even if his trousers were ruined, however, Bruce determined he would do what he could to salvage the outing. Stepping over to Dick, he began tugging the backpack from the boy's shoulders.

"Well, we're certainly scared the ducks with our entrance, didn't we," he asked lightly. "It's only fair we go ahead and feed them, don't you think? They earned it, after all."

Bruce kneeled down and pulled the bag of breadcrumbs from the pack. No sense in worrying about the grass stains anymore. He handed Dick his bag.

The boy walked toward the nervous ducks slowly so as not to startle them again. He opened the bag and took out a handful of breadcrumbs and tossed them a couple of feet in front of him. When the ducks ignored his offering, Dick took another handful out and tossed it farther out; half the distance. Once more the ducks waddled and shook their tail feathers at him, but ignored the crumbs.

"Dumb birds," he muttered, and took another handful out of the bag. "Here, you stupid birds! Come eat it!"

This time, Dick tossed the breadcrumbs a lot more forcefully. The crumbs rained down over the top of a couple of the birds. The ducks promptly pecked at the bread. As if realizing they were missing out on a treat, the rest of the ducks; more than a dozen, turned to join in the free buffet. They found the earlier treat and then, when Dick tossed another handful in their direction, the ducks charged him; several stopping to eat while the other continued toward the source of the food.

Dick backed up and tossed out another handful, and then another. As before several of the birds stopped to eat, but the first ones were now scampering past their cousins in an effort to find more of the sudden manna. As the ducks ran up to him, one pecked at his leg as if to encourage him to give out more of his bounty. Dick yelped and jumped. Another duck pecked at his shoe, causing the boy to leap backward again. He tossed more out and while several turned away to eat the newly-dispatched crumbs, the rest quacked loudly and rushed him.

Yelling, Dick threw the entire bag away and ran. The ducks ran after him.

Bruce bent a knee and opened his arms. Dick flew straight into them. He lifted the boy up onto his shoulders, but jumped a little when the ducks swarmed him and began pecking at his legs next. Dick laughed when Bruce let out a yelp and took off running around the lake away from the crazy birds; screeching a bit when one determined duck appeared to dive bomb them.

Although the ducks stopped chasing them after a dozen yards or so, Bruce continued on around the lake shore just to be safe. He finally stopped and swung Dick down onto his own feet near a rocky beach.

"Sorry about that, chum," Bruce chuckled. "I'm not sure what got into those ducks. I've never seen birds act like that before."

Dick was smiling when he admitted, "Swans and geese will sometimes do that, too."

"Really? And you know this how? Did you have swans and geese in your circus?"

Dick shook his head, and bent down to pick up a few stones. "No, but we saw them at the parks in some of the towns and cities we toured. Swans are much scarier when they chase you than ducks."

"Hm, I can imagine. Larger wingspan . . ." Bruce rubbed his chin.

Dick compared the stones in his hands and eventually chose one of them. He turned to the lake and tossed the stone with a flick of his wrist. Bruce watched the stone skip across the water seven, eight . . . nine times. The boy immediately bent and picked up another rock similar to the first. Thin, flat, and round. He threw it again, flicking his wrist just so. This time the stone skipped twelve times.

Bruce had an idea.

"Impressive," he commented. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Bruce thought that maybe the boy wasn't going to answer him, but then Dick stopped. He turned a stone over and over in his hand. He didn't look up as he answered him.

"My . . . My dad," he said softly.

"He must have been a pretty good rock skipper," Bruce said casually, "based off of what I just seen you do."

Dick glanced up; one edge of his mouth upturned. "Yeah, my dad was the best rock skipper in the _world_! He taught me a few years ago."

Turning, Dick threw this next stone livelier than he had the previous ones. The rock skipped across the water fourteen, fifteen . . . _sixteen_ times!

"Yeah!" Dick jumped up. He turned back to Bruce with a grin. "My dad could skip his stone _twenty times_. I'm going to be that good one day," he announced. "Did you see that last skip? _Sixteen times_! I'm almost there!"

Bruce looked down at the stones on the beach. He kicked a few and asked, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to teach me how to skip rocks as well as you do, would you?"

Dick glanced back at him, surprised. "You don't know how to skip rocks?"

"Will you teach me?"

Dick contemplated the man in front of him, tilting his head as if studying a particularly intriguing puzzle. He shrugged. "Okay, sure," he said. "First you need to pick out the right kind of rock."

The next few hours were spent with Dick showing Bruce everything from picking the right rock to determining the angle the rock should be thrown to how to make it spin just so. Bruce paid careful attention to all of Dick's instructions, but the first few stones he tossed just plopped into the water; making a big splash.

Dick laughed and patiently showed the man again and again how to throw the rock just right; even helping to pick out the stones for him. Eventually, Bruce was skipping stones across the lake anywhere from six to ten times. Dick jumped up and down, applauding when Bruce managed ten whole skips!

* * *

Over the course of the afternoon, Dick told stories about his parents, starting with his father teaching him how to skip rocks for the first time. He told stories about the trapeze and the circus, and Bruce learned more in that afternoon than he ever wanted to know about elephants. Only once did Dick's voice thicken and quiver with emotion. He didn't cry, however, but went on to tell a happier story about Eleanor the Elephant soaking Dick with water when he tried to bathe her.

Dick chatted animatedly over a turkey sandwich, and was surprised when he discovered that he finished it. Bruce shared the cocoa with him, even going so far as to wipe the chocolate moustache from the boy's upper lip with his thumb. It wasn't until the child shivered that Bruce realized that the sun was dipping low over the ridge behind them. It was going to be full dark in the next twenty minutes, and he hadn't even noticed.

Bruce was about to unzip his jacket to give to the boy, when a beam of a flashlight speared through their little makeshift campsite. Alfred was walking around the side of the lake in their direction, bearing a bundle that looked suspiciously like heavy winter jackets. Perfect timing, as usual.

"I say, it is getting rather nippy out here to be running about in light jackets," Alfred called out to them once he was close enough that he didn't have to yell.

"Those look most welcome, Alfred, thank you," Bruce smiled, taking the bundle from the man's arms.

"It was getting late. Dinner will be ready soon," Alfred gently scolded.

"Sorry about that, Alfred," Bruce apologized sheepishly. "Time sort of got away from us, didn't it, Dickiebird?"

Dick dropped the stones he still held and dusted off his hands. He looked quizzically at the man in front of him. "Dickiebird?"

"Just a nickname," he told the boy. "Does it bother you? I won't use it if you don't like it."

Bruce shook out Dick's coat and looked at it. It was a little threadbare, but still serviceable, he supposed.

"It's okay," Dick said, shyly. "I don't mind. It's kind of funny."

"What is," Bruce asked.

"My mom used to say I soared like a bird on the trapeze," he told him. His smile wavered and fell away. "I miss her . . . And my dad."

Bruce hesitated. They had been having a good time until now. He hated to see it end. "That's okay. That is how it is supposed to be," he assured the boy. "You are allowed to miss them, you know. You are allowed to cry if you need to. No one will ever scold you for that here."

"But you said they want me to be happy," Dick reminded him.

"And they do. I do, too. You will have times when you feel sad, and when you do, know that you can cry without fear. Eventually, you will be able to think of them without the pain and smile as you recall happier memories, and that is as it should be as well." Bruce told him. "Like you did today."

"So the pain will go away after a while," Dick asked. It was an extremely important question to him.

"The pain doesn't ever _completely_ go away, but it _will_ get better. You will be happy again," Bruce promised him. "Now, let's get this coat on before you turn into a Popsicle."

Helping the boy get it on, he noticed the sleeves rode up a bit, exposing his wrists. He glanced up at Alfred. Surely the ever-efficient butler would have realized that Dick had outgrown his coat and replaced it by now. Winter would be here in full force any day now, and they would be saying goodbye to the unusually warm weather of a late Indian summer. Dick needed to be better outfitted than this to withstand the biting cold of Gotham winters. He made a note to remind the man to find Dick a coat that would cover his wrists.

"I procured new gloves and a scarf for the young sir," Alfred supplied helpfully.

Indeed he had. Bruce helped tug on the warm gloves and wrapped the red scarf around the boy's neck several times; the ends still trailed behind him a bit.

"I doubt you'll be growing out of this scarf anytime soon," Bruce teased; pulling the scarf up and over Dick's face.

The boy yanked the woolen material out of his face and grinned. Without warning, Dick threw his arms around Bruce's neck and squeezed.

"Thank you," he whispered in the man's ear.

Unsure of what else to do, Bruce hugged him back. "You're most welcome."

As Dick turned to Alfred, the older man smiled genially down at him. "And did you enjoy your outing with the ducks, young sir?"

Dick's eyes widened comically. "Those ducks were mean," he announced. "We had to run away because they kept pecking at our legs and feet!"

"Ah, that explains why I needed to walk so far around the lake to find you," the elder man said. "I take it no injuries were incurred?"

Bruce cleared his throat. "None, if we don't count my pants."

Alfred raised an inquiring eyebrow as Dick laughed.

"Bruce slid down the hill on his bottom," the boy explained between giggles.

The second eyebrow rose to join the first. "Indeed? Well, that sounds like an exciting tale. I'll look forward to hearing all about it after dinner," Alfred said.

"I taught Bruce how to skip stones, too," Dick's eyes seemed to sparkle with new life. "He did really good, but not as good as me!"

"He did well, Master Richard," Alfred corrected.

Dick tilted his head. "That's what I just said."

"I see, well, I'll make certain we spend a little time on grammar later," the butler straightened his shoulders and tugged on the edges of his own jacket. "Now, would you care to carry one of the torches for the way back?"

Dick took the flashlight offered and flicked it on. There was still enough light in the sky to see the way back, but the path in the woods would be rather dim without the added light.

"Go on with you, now. You will need to wash up for dinner," Alfred instructed. "Make certain to take off your muddy shoes and leave them by the door. We don't want to track mud throughout the house, do we?"

"Yes sir," Dick nodded. "No sir," he said and headed back the way they had come, waving his beam of light in wild patterns on the ground in front of him.

Bruce had zipped his own coat and was tugging on his gloves when the butler turned an inquiring gaze back on him.

"You have something to say?"

"It would appear that the afternoon was a success," Alfred noted happily as they watched the boy trudging up the hill ahead of them.

"Did you know that elephants live to be around seventy years old; that their tusks are incisors that will grow for all of their lives; and that, like humans are right-handed or left-handed, elephants can be right-tusked or left-tusked," Bruce murmured.

"You don't say . . ." Alfred hummed.

"Baby elephants will suck on their trunks like a human child sucks its thumb," Bruce continued. "And elephants walk on their tiptoes."

Alfred smiled. "Fascinating."

"Oh, and there's more; a lot more." Bruce chuckled. "Alfred, I've learned more about elephants in the last couple of hours than I ever learned in my entire life."

"Apparently you've learned to skip stones this afternoon as well," the butler commented. "It is an odd thing, but I seem to remember that Master Thomas spent the occasional afternoon at this very lake teaching another young boy how to skip stones. And I seem to recall that young boy was quite the expert at one time."

Tugging off his glove, Bruce flashed him a grin and bent to pick up a smooth, flat rock of just the right shape. With a flick of the wrist, the stone went sailing across the water. There was just enough light coming over the ridge for them to count the skips; thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six . . . thirty-seven times!

"Impressive," Alfred nodded. "You haven't lost the touch, I see."

Bruce wiped his hands and pulled his glove back on. "It's all in the angle and the spin," he said.

"And yet," Alfred's eyes found the boy making strange shadows in the trees with the beam of his flashlight. "You spent a number of hours allowing a young boy to believe he was teaching you how to skip stones for the first time."

Bruce watched the child entertain himself as he waited for them to catch up. "It seemed to relax him," he murmured, "and it allowed him to open up in the way that Leslie said was important for him to do."

"So, he ate his sandwich, then?"

"Every bite," Bruce smiled. "I have a feeling he might even find his appetite for dinner as well."

The butler sighed with relief. "That is very good news."

They walked in silence a few more minutes.

Just before they got into hearing range, Bruce blew out his breath and muttered to his butler and oldest friend, "You know, he talks a _lot_ more than I imagined he would."

* * *

Alfred tightened his lips in order to contain his mirth at the younger man's sudden bemusement. The change in the child from noon until now was quite astonishing, and the elder man had the feeling that they had yet to see the full extent of the boy's energy and zest for life. This day felt as though they had reached a turning point, and he, for one, found himself looking forward to the bewilderment and dismay that the coming weeks promised to bring to the manor, and more importantly to the master of the house.

Master Bruce's life had been far too grim, and controlled for far too long. While the idea of bringing a young child into the home had horrified Alfred in the beginning, the older man was starting to see that the concept had some merit. Master Bruce could do with having his world shaken up and turned on its ear for a change. There were definite benefits to be found in that.

He had worried for his charge that Master Bruce had stepped so far away from humanity that he had lost something of his own in his quest to bring justice to Gotham City. But for the younger man to have pretended ignorance of anything in order to help a child to relax and feel important in some small way spoke of a man who still held onto his soul despite the darkness with which he had surrounded himself.

The young master shone his light onto Master Bruce, causing the man to blink at the surprising brightness that had split the shadows. It seemed almost prophetic, Alfred thought to himself as he watched the boy run back to meet them. He tugged on Master Bruce's hand in order to show him some newly-discovered wonder amongst the shrubbery.

The sun finally dipped below the ridge and night settled in around them, and yet, their lives had never seemed more brilliant than it did right now.

* * *

Bruce smiled lazily as he watched as the twenty-three year old carefully choose a rock amongst those that lined the lake. The grief-stricken boy he had brought out here so many years ago was his son in truth now. That son was currently prattling on about a myriad of things as he was wont to do whenever the two of them found the time to walk here. It seemed that no matter the subject or even the shape of their relationship, the act of skipping stones across the water could always lull Dick into opening up and talking.

 _ **If**_ he could lure him out here . . . There was a time when Bruce despaired ever seeing Dick return to the manor, let alone visit the lake with him.

It had taken several years before Dick realized the purpose behind Bruce's choice of walking paths, but it hadn't seemed to affect the outcome of their visits. Casting a few rocks across the water always relaxed him enough to begin talking about the things in his heart; his worries, concerns, hopes, and dreams.

As long as they had this place, as long as they could toss a few stones together, Bruce had hope that he and Dick could work anything out.

"What are you smiling at," Dick glanced back at him suspiciously.

Bruce's smile widened. "Just remembering the first time I brought you out here."

Dick grinned. "That was the day I taught you to skip rocks," he said, laughing. "I don't know if I ever really thanked you for that. It's one of my favorite memories. Hah! And I'm _still_ better at skipping rocks than you are. It is the **_one_ _thing_** in this entire world that I'm better at than Bruce Wayne . . ."

"Is that so," Bruce challenged idly. "Want to have another go at it?"

"You're on," Dick accepted enthusiastically. He bent and began choosing from the stone present.

Bruce chose five of his own. Every few years, he refurbish the shoreline with new rocks; always those suitable for skipping, so that there was ever a ready supply.

They took their turns; counting carefully the number of skips. The last stone Dick cast was his best effort yet; thirty-two times across the lake. Bruce took his time before releasing his last stone . . . Dick leaned forward, squinting in order to do an accurate count.

Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six . . . before Bruce's rock sank below the surface.

Dick whooped and jumped. "Still the champ!"

Bruce grinned at his antics; ruffling the younger man's hair much as he did years ago. "You sure are! Go on with you, now," he chided. "Alfred's not going to hold dinner all night, you know."

"Race you back," Dick laughed. He took off up the incline towards the wooded path that led back to the manor's formal grounds.

Bruce picked up another rock. With one last glance to ensure that Dick wasn't watching, Bruce tossed the stone with an expert flick of the wrist. He watched and counted as it bounced its way across the surface of the lake. Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three . . . Forty-four times!

"Bruce? You coming?" Dick stood at the top of the ridge and waved at him.

Grinning, he trotted up the hill. "On my way, champ!"

* * *

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